


idle hands

by orphan_account



Series: slouching towards something [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blowjobs, Dean is confused, Hurt and not much comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot With Porn, Sam is a sex robot, Soulless Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love, Wincest - Freeform, dean is broken, face fucking, handjobs, robo!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:43:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on, give me a handjob,” says Sam. “Please?”</p><p>“Fine!” Dean snaps. “But shut up about it, no eye contact -- and so help me God if you spunk on me I will kick your ass.”</p><p>--</p><p>Sam's sexually frustrated and has no conscience. Dean's more than a little broken. Together they solve crime! And also have awkward sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	idle hands

“Come on, give me a handjob,” says Sam. “Please?”

“Fine!” Dean snaps. “But shut up about it, no eye contact -- and so help me God if you spunk on me I will kick your ass.”

\--

That’s not how it starts.

Of course that’s not how it starts.

It starts something like this:

“Have sex with me,” says Sam. He’s got no soul. He’s got the dead bright eyes of a shark, and the sharp ugly smile of some kind of reptile, and he’s not Dean’s brother at all -- but then again he is, he’s Sam (sort of) and even the notion is enough to make Dean’s stomach roil.

“What the fuck,” says Dean, and Sam quirks his head on one side, clearly confused.

“Have sex with me. I’m bored and horny and we’re in the middle of nowhere --” It’s true: they’re in the middle of the fucking desert, staking out an old warehouse that they think a wendigo is using as a lair (they've found bones and rotting old sheep carcasses there), “and there are no hookers for miles and I know you’re gagging for it. You haven’t had a girl since, what? Maine? Before that? It’s been weeks. I barely manage a few days before I get twitchy.”

Dean’s so revolted that he can’t speak. The stars above are limitless and wild, and the moon is a great silver galleon and it is all very beautiful.

But now Dean is thinking of sex, and cock, and his brother who apparently thinks that sex with him is a feasible option -- his brother who is not his brother, he reminds himself -- and then all he wants to do _punch something_ because he is thinking of how Sam will handle this when he gets his soul back. And he’s imagining Sam imagining sex with him.

He lets out a strangled bark of laughter.

Sam pulls his lips into a strange, mocking grimace -- it’s an expression that the old Sam, the real Sam, never wore. It’s malice, pure and simple. And it sends a little chill down Dean’s spine -- a flitter like a parade of ants -- and he can’t look at the stars anymore, can’t enjoy the scenery and the quiet and the peace.

He wants the wendigo to hurry the fuck up and arrive.

But it doesn’t. They wait there until the sun starts to bloom in the sky, tongues of gold and red seeping into the strata of cloud. They sit there in thorny silence until Dean’s face cracks open on a yawn, and he says, “Well, I guess that this isn’t his den after all.”

Dean’s legs are cramping up from being angled in the Impala all night. His brain is muggy with sleep, and all he wants to do is collapse into bed.

Sam, the soulless bastard, looks unruffled.

“So you don’t need to sleep, but you can’t go two days without sex?” says Dean, slanting a cold look towards RoboCop.

“Sleep isn’t needed. Sex is fun. I need to jack off at the least, so if we’re not going to fuck do you mind if I climb in the back and jack off?”

“No!”

“No you don’t mind, or --”

“Go fuck yourself Sam. That’s a no. No you cannot jack off in the back of Baby. We’ll get a motel.”

\--

They get a motel.

Sam spends forty minutes in the shower, burns through all the hot water and leaves a crusty lump of toilet paper on the sink.

\--

When they were younger, they crafted pockets of privacy for themselves in the shadows of hotel rooms,behind locked doors and even -- on occasion -- in the back of the car. Having sex, jerking off, whatever it was they did -- or needed to do -- they did in silence, without ever letting the other know.

But this Sam, this new hollow creature, has lost any and all desire for privacy. He no longer builds walls to shield himself.

They are stuck in a red rangy town in the blistering armpit of Arizona. The sky is high and hot as a striking iron.

The air is snatching and thirsty, and every breath is like sandpaper. And here they are, stuck in the rancid heat, trying desperately to hunt down a wendigo who seems to have eaten half a dozen people. Maybe more. They've been found half-gnawed behind bins, in skips, buried in shallow graves -- this wendigo is a glutton, taking bites here and there, not storing any. Favouring the tender organs: hearts missing, lungs chewed, marrow sucked out. 

And -- to top it all -- the aircon is broken.

So in the thickening heat they trawl the internet, looking at blueprints and maps, and by midday Dean is ready to die. His eyes itch with the need for sleep, and in a slow fug he peels his shirt off, tosses it on the foot of the bed. The windows gape open, but nothing more than a raw scarlet wind -- hot as the breath of a hellhound -- staggers in.

“If that’s not his lair,” says Dean, “then what is. What can we do?”

His jeans chafe at his skin. Sweat simmers in his groin and at his hips. He’s fucking fermenting.

Without thinking he wriggles out of his jeans as well. They lie in a heavy fall of denim on the floor. His boxers are damp with sweat.

He shoves a hand in, rearranges his junk in a quick, practiced motion and --

Sam is staring at him.

Sam is staring at him and not in a ‘dude stop touching your junk you’re making it weird’ way but in a ‘I’m going to fuck you through the bed’ way -- it is a flat, hungry look that Dean’s very familiar with. He’s worn it himself, countless times, when he’s looking at Lisa or Peggy or, uh, any other girl he’s talked into bed.

A roseate flush crawls up his back.

Sam licks his lips. Dean’s brain scrambles to rationalise: it is dry as fuck, the air is heavy with sand blown in on the wind, his lips are dry as well, chapped to shit, and they both need Vaseline. So yeah. Sam licking his lips, that’s not strange -- that’s just natural -- but that, and the look, and --

Sam’s not wearing a shirt either. He’s got jeans on, but no shirt, and his muscles shine slick and wet with perspiration and God when did he bulk up so much? He’s easily half as big again as he had been five years or so ago. He’s got hands like spades, he’s a fucking --

Dean shakes his head, looks away.

He feels Sam’s eyes boring into him.

“Okay, how about a blowjob?” says Sam.

Dean’s head snaps up.

Sam’s sitting with his knees spread open, his jeans pulled tight over his crotch and Dean sees the outline of --

Nope. No. Nuh-uh. None of that.

Then he realizes that he hasn’t answered Sam’s question.

Sam sprawls his knees wider, gestures to his dick with both hands -- fingers splayed open in the universal symbol of _come on then_ \-- and he pulls an inquiring face. Like he is presenting his dick for Dean's delight, serving it up on a platter.

“No!”

Dean jumps up, dives for the sanctity of the bathroom.

Runs the shower cold, cold as ice to rinse all the congealing sweat off.

\--

Another body. A girl this time, nineteen. She leaves behind a family. four sisters. A full complement of grandparents.

Dean leaves Sam -- it feels so wrong doing so, but as he is reminded each day this is not touchy-feely kindly-gently Sammy but a robot that feeds on sex, blood and, apparently, incest.

He asks a couple of question. Ascertains nothing more than the girl was kind and sweet and known in the community for volunteering at the local retirement home. She went missing when she was driving home, and a day ago she was found strung up from a tree, entrails pooling on the ground beneath her.

\--

“Sammy?” croons a voice outside the door. “Sammy, let me in--”

“That’s a terribly impression of my brother,” says Sam. He can smell the wendigo -- the coppery, bloody stench.

He reaches under his bed. There’s a lighter, gasoline. Fire is cleansing, clean and good -- Sam adores it.

“Here kitty, kitty,” he coos, and his teeth show white.

\--

Dean’s driving back from seeing the family.

They had all been so nice.

He’d been invited in for lunch, and that had turned into dinner, and stories had spilled into the air around them -- of Alice’s adventures, of her girlhood and her dreams and all the things that she would never ever achieve.

To his eternal, abiding shame his vision fractures. Tears. He's actually ready to cry.

Since when did he grow a vagina?

Baby’s lights catch on a body sprawled in the road.

Dean hits the breaks hard.

A voice screams, “My darling! Please! My baby!” and Dean’s hand goes to the gun beneath his seat.

\--

Two wendigos. A mated pair.

\--

But wendigos are fucking stupid.

\--

“Did they really think that they could beat us?” says Sam. His hair falls into his eyes; it gives him a faintly sinister look. “Coming for us when we were split up -- like we would be weaker apart.”

Dean wants to say: we’re stronger together, but we’re strong apart as well.

Dean wants to say: one of us doesn’t care at all, and one of us cares, and it turned out the same.

Dean wants to say a lot, and he says nothing at all.

He’s thinking of the girl, that little thing, the girl called Alice. Her vast family. All lost without her. He's thinking of Lisa and Ben, of Bobby's wife and the children that were never born. 

Sam says, “So, that’s done. Fancy giving me a blowjob before we hit the road?”

\--

“I’ll suck you off first, how about that?” says Sam. A week later, and they’ve just finished torching the bones of a woman who had been haunting her former convent.

Sam’s got his elbows propped up on the crypt.

“Right here -- I’ll suck you off, spit or swallow, whichever you fancy. And then you let me fuck your pretty little mouth.”

The air smells of burning, dead flesh.

“No,” says Dean. “Jesus Christ. There's a burning body Sam. It's right there. I don't get off on that!”

\--

“I totally get it,” says Sam, a little later. “I mean -- not wanting to suck me off. You haven’t sucked a guy off before, have you? And starting with me isn’t easy. Going in at the deepend really. I’m a little bit too well-endowed for you. I mean,” and he gets it out.

He gets it out.

Oh Jesus, Sam is not kidding.

It takes him two hands to hold it. It’s half-full.

This is too much.

Dean goes and gets himself a nice cold shower to, uh. To wash off the sin. Yeah, that’s it.

\--

Dean gets drunk off his tits the next night, in a skeezy little bar with a battered neon sign outside.

San, it transpires, can still get drunk despite his lack of soul.

His smile is sloppy and has more than a shade of cruelty to it.

“So, I don’t get it,” he says. “We’re brothers, sure, and society has this thing about incest. But I can’t knock you up, and so we’re not going to bring any retarded kids into the world. And it’s not like we haven’t broken every other rule of society -- we steal and murder and lie and cheat, and we burn bones. So I don’t see how you sucking me off is any worse than murdering innocent people. Which we’ve both done, don’t look at me like that.”

“M’not gay,” says Dean.

“Sucking dick is not gay,” says Sam.

“It is the definition of gay.”

“Fine, it’s gay. And? A mouth is a mouth. Girls are just as good as boys.”

“So you’re gay?”

“Na. I’m not anything. I just like getting my dick wet.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I know. But have you ever met a girl who liked anal -- and I mean actually liked it, not just pretended to like it.”

“Uh -- “ and Dean’s mouth contorts.

Sam’s smile is triumphant. “Yes, precisely. But dudes love it. Love it. I like to get on Grindr, find a guy and rail him all night -- til he can’t walk. And then go and find another one. Keep going until I’m too tired to find someone else to fuck.”

Dean’s uh --

Dean’s not turned on by that. He’s not.

“Last time I had a guy he was eighteen, skinny as a rake but prettier than any girl and oh God he took it like a champ. Loved it. To be fair, I loved it more. I think I tore him up a little -- “

“You are disgusting,” Dean snaps. “Why is it that no soul makes you into a fucking -- sex robot.”

“You love it,” chirrups Sam.

Then he clamps his hand -- his fucking ridiculously big hand -- over Dean’s. “I’d be really fucking good at it.”

\--

Dean refuses.

Obviously.

\--

There’s another case. A gang of ghouls. It takes them a long time to find the things -- too long -- and five people die.

Dean drinks a bit too much. He’s not pissed, but he's pleasantly tipsy -- it is a slow, honey feeling that seeps into his limbs. It fuzzes the edges of his thoughts, and so things like revulsion are shoved to the side.

And so when Sam asks for a handjob, Dean agrees. In the hazy, addled state that whisky brings on it makes sense.

And its more than that. The veil of bad and wrong has been stripped away. He’s thinking of the gloss of Sam’s sweat on his muscle and he’s thinking of Sam, the centre of his world, the most important thing in the entire universe.

They’ve killed and killed and doomed the world. Is this really so wrong?

Dean sinks to his knees.

Sam’s not surprised. His eyes glow with dark joy, and he opens his legs.

Dean tugs his zip down

He’s never given a handjob before., He’s given himself one of course, but that doesn’t really count, and as soon as he curls his fingers around Sam’s cock his brain goes white and static.

He gives an experimental tug

Sam makes this hard, low grunt.

“Yeah,” he says, “fucking finally.”

Dean tugs a bit more. And a bit more. Sam fills up in his hand, hard and silky and after a moment he shoves Dean away. 

"I've forgotten," says Sam. "The best way to give a handjob? Use your mouth."

He rests one hand -- his fingers bite into Dean's scalp -- on the back of Dean's skull and guides him forward. "Open up, big brother."

That sends a good, warm throb right to the base of Dean's dick. It shouldn't, and yet it does, and he can't bring himself to feel guilty. He thinks, briefly, of Alice -- the girl, her family, all that love -- and he has a sudden lightning-flash of realization. He didn't almost cry because of one dead girl. He almost wept because of the love in the room, the ferocious and passionate love churning up the air. 

And he doesn't have that. He used to, and he never appreciated it. He used to have all that love, condensed into one single bond -- all the love of an entire family linking him and Sam together, tighter than the moon is locked into orbit. Tighter than the tides and the shore. Alice's family, the bond they had with their child; it is a pale shadow next to what he and Sam had. 

Because Sam is his  _everything_. 

And Sammy isn't here. His Sammy isn't here. 

But this one -- this  _Sam_ \-- is, and Dean finds himself obliging. He drags his tongue up the underside of Sam's cock. It tastes bitter and salty and sort of how he would imagine a dick to taste. 

Sam makes a soft, encouraging noise. His fingers are hard, unyielding, and he pushes Dean's face forwards encouragingly. The head of his cock nudges against Dean's cheek. It leaves a sticky glistening trail of precum. 

"Open up," says Sam, again, and this time Dean does. Sam hooks his finger into the corner of Dean's mouth, tugs hard. 

Dean wants to protest -- but Sam cuts it off by guiding his cock onto Dean's tongue, into the warm channel of his throat.

It tastes appalling. Salty and dense with sweat. But -- and this sounds beyond strange, even in the strange caverns of Dean's brain -- he still loves it, loves the way Sam sighs (heavy, happy). Sam's other hand rests on the other side of Dean's head, cradling him. 

And he plunges deeper. 

It's a scramble to move his tongue out of the way, to keep it flat, to stop it snagging oddly on the thrust of Sam's cock. Especially when Sam does not let up. He nudges deeper, deeper, until Dean starts to gag. His throat flutters, miserable and struggling and Dean snaps his palms onto Sam's hips, shoves hard. Sam abates. 

Dean comes up for air, drool swinging from his lips in pearlescent streams. The point of his tongue darts out, laps at the spare saliva. He coughs. 

"Oh, don't be such a  _girl_ ," Sam says, jacking off in slow, lazy strokes. His smile is still there. His eyes flicker. They aren't shining, or anything poetic like that; they are reflecting light. That's it. There's nothing brilliant there. 

Dean's in love with Sam. 

Dean's  _in love with Sam._

But Sam's not here. There's a strange thing wearing his skin, and it isn't a demon, and it is Sam flayed down to his most primal instincts: sex and blood. 

And it is better than nothing. 

Dean swallows his brother down again. 

And this time, when Sam thrusts up, Dean doesn't push away. 

He slackens his throat. He goes pliant. He lets Sam fuck his throat. It isn't great, but it -- it makes him feel powerful. A low, warm feeling spreading through his bones. Yes: Sam moans, utters this godforsaken sound like Dean is taking his world apart. 

"Yes, good boy, take it; all of it -- deeper -- fuck Dean, your  _mouth --_ yes take it, take it all -- " and Dean's lips are pressed against Sam's balls, his mouth buried in his brother's fucking pubes and he should not be turned on but he is. 

He is. 

His dick is swelling in his boxers. 

Sam pulls out, languorous, then thrusts back in. For a long, long time the hotel is silent save the wet, obscene sounds of Sam's cock finding the back of Dean's throat. 

Sam stands up, grabs the back of Dean's hair again, tugs him back. "God Dean, I need to fuck you. Let me."

Dean coughs. His throat burns. But he's hard, achingly so, and all he can reply is, "Yes, oh God yes."

\--

Sam fingers Dean open, rough and vicious. He smears lube along his dick, and sinks in. It burns. It burns, bright and starlike, and Dean loves it.

Sam inches in. Little by little, filling Dean up, until he's seated balls deep. And then he rests. Just rests. Dean's on his hands and knees like a worshipper of a strange, distant God -- and Sam's inside him.

Everything is right, and everything is wrong.

"The other me might not do this," says Sam, absently. He rocks his hips forward. His cock nudges Dean's prostate and the world explodes and Dean cums in a series of white spurts all over the sheets. "But I would. I want you. You feel so good. Tight and hot and stretched so _pretty_ around my dick. Open up for me Dean. Open up."

Dean does.

And Sam ploughs into him. Again and again, and he leans right over Dean -- Sam's chest on Dean's back -- and grabs his hips and plunges in and it hurts, it burns, it is star and fire and magic. Dean backs his hips up, urging Sam in deeper.

Sam buries his teeth in Dean's nape. Chews. The pain is bright and dark at the same time. Sam sucks bruises into Dean's neck, murmuring, "Yes you are mine, you are mine."

 

He wants to never leave.

He wants this bond, this bond that makes the world pale by comparison, to never break.

Sam cums with a low, urgent sound. Cum shoots all the way inside Dean, like fire and meteors, and he hangs limp in Sam's grasp.

To his surprise -- to his horror -- Sam kisses his nape.  

"You're so tight," he says, and it is the closest to an 'I love you' that Dean's going to get from this version of Sam he's going to get.

He'll take it.


End file.
